'Million Dollar Arm' is a cheap rip-off

Critics are like umpires: We call 'em like we see 'em. Sometimes we err, but mostly we get it right, especially when an alleged phenom like "Million Dollar Arm" is so clearly caught stealing.

Al Alexander

Critics are like umpires: We call 'em like we see 'em. Sometimes we err, but mostly we get it right, especially when an alleged phenom like "Million Dollar Arm" is so clearly caught stealing.

The source of that thievery is "Jerry Maguire," a romantic dramedy so thoroughly pillaged that you expect "Arm's" core crop of Indian athletes to start screaming, "Show me the rupees!" Pretty disappointing for a thoroughbred that looked to have all the tools, including "Mad Men's" biggest tool, Don Draper. But not even a TV pitch man as dynamic as Jon Hamm can get us to buy what he's selling as emotionally bankrupt sports agent J.B. Bernstein. Like Monsieur Maguire, J.B. is struggling to make a go of it alone after generating millions for an established sports agency. But the similarities don't end there. Hamm's J.B. also dares to put himself ahead of friends, family and potential trophy wives. He's looking out exclusively for No. 1, meaning he's perfect fodder for a Disney-movie comeuppance that will expose him to the error of his ways and persuade him to settle down with a wholesome, pragmatic all-American girl (literally) next door.

In "Jerry Maguire," that thankless, squeaky-clean "Madonna" garbage fell upon Renee Zellweger. Here, it's Lake Bell ("In a World"), a hugely talented actor stuck trying to spin gold out of an insufferable stereotype. But the cliches writer Tom McCarthy ("Win Win") hangs on her are nothing compared to the tropes Indian stars Suraj Sharma ("Life of Pi") and Madhur Mittal ("Slumdog Millionaire") are subjected to as baseball prospects Rinku and Dinesh during a culture-clashing journey from Mumbai to L.A. Along the way, Bernstein unintentionally recreates the Middle Passage in attempting to sell his pair of naive, cricket-hating manchildren to the highest Major League bidder.

They're pitchers, you see, culled from the Indian bush via an "American Idol"-like competition concocted by Bernstein to find MLB's version of Yao Ming. His efforts are not for the good of the game — although a couple of Indians in the majors could potentially tap a market of tens of millions of new fans — but because they would be good for J.B. and his desperate need to make a name for himself. That wouldn't be such a bad story if director Craig Gillespie ("Lars and the Real Girl"), a native of virtually baseball-free Australia, told the fact-based story from the wide-eyed perspective of Rinku and Dinesh instead of Bernstein's considerably more jaundiced peepers.

Other than the film's opening hour, when the normally pampered J.B. (he drives a Porsche and lives in a mansion) is forced to adapt to the chaotic life of modern-day India — where the throngs of people, dodgy water and unpleasant smells have a profound effect on him — the filmmakers offer little that's new or interesting. That's because we've seen foreign fish out of water in dozens of movies from "Crocodile Dundee" to "Borat." What we haven't seen, are Americans assimilating to Indian life. That's where "Arm" should have extended its reach for the entire movie, showing J.B. flapping about helplessly in a sea of people unlike himself. India is also where we get to know Alan Arkin's cantankerous super scout Ray Poitevint, who hilariously uses his ears more than eyes to identify talent. Or he does whenever he's not asleep, which is often.

His scenes with Hamm and Bollywood star Pitobash, as J.B.'s overzealous translator, are pure joy, as is the vibrant Indian scenery, from the Taj Mahal in Agar to the crowded, overheated streets of Mumbai. But the bubble bursts when the scene moves to L.A. during the movie's blah, laborious second hour, when it's Rinku and Dinesh's turn to look in awe upon such Western marvels as elevators and big-screen TVs. It's a little presumptuous, though, for the filmmakers to expect us to believe that "the kids" would be amazed by a packed baseball stadium knowing they grew up in a country where large crowds are the norm.

But then prospects for fleshing out the prospects are never as high as J.B. reluctantly becoming a father figure, albeit a rather heartless one, to his young charges, including Amit, who also makes the journey to sunny California. It's as predictable as it sounds, but instead of the "big game" the film climaxes with the boys auditioning before scouts — not once, but twice. It's supposed to be dramatic and suspenseful, but if you've seen the numerous TV and magazine reports on the duo, you already know that both pitchers were signed to minor league contracts by the Pittsburgh Pirates. Neither has made it to the majors, which would have made for a far more compelling story. But then the movie really isn't about them. They are merely props for yet another American alpha male being "saved" by hypocritical Hollywood types who seldom practice what they preach when it comes to putting family ahead of money.

Still, as repulsive as I found the film's disingenuous message, I can't complain about the outstanding performances from all involved, including Assif Mandvi as J.B.'s put-upon partner, Aash; and Bill Paxton as famed pitching coach Tom House, who is given the impossible task of turning two young men who never touched a baseball into strike-out kings within the space of six months. Disappointingly, we never get to see how he accomplishes this feat, but then, like I said, the movie is all about Bernstein. Proving that even after his miraculous transformation, nothing is more important to Bernstein than Bernstein.

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